He has been selling meat in Tena Estate since I was in my late teens and donning a Tupac-like bandana. His corner butchery has ample space and a compound where two cars can easily park (three if one of them is a Vitz).
At that early morning hour before the cock’s crow rents the air, Xana cries. No one sees his tears but when the sun rises, everyone sees the resigned look in his brown eyes. Since the late 90s, he lives in a government resettlement camp on the edge of Botswana’s Central Kalahari Game Reserve.
Nairobi’s transport has arrived at a crossroads that is literally a life and death matter. To the left is Beijing with its skyscrapers and ocean of cars while to the right is Lamu Old Town with its actual ocean and hundreds of donkeys.